Scars
by MissSpaceMonkey
Summary: Oh where oh where can our Malcolm boy be?


A sharp pain pierced the man's entire body. He fell to hard, cold ground after he screamed. One hand clasped his pulsing arm and his whole face cringed. Standing above him, a creature spoke an alien tongue, looking quizzed at him.

"I think you broke it," he spat back. "You bloke." His teeth clenched as he tried not to move, for if he did, the pain would again sear through his entire body. The foul alien tipped his head and shone an ironic smile across his face. It grumbled something, every word hanging onto a sick amusement, and backed out of the cell, slamming the door shut.

He remembered this feeling: black, total black. Nothing could be seen, not even a splash of light from under the cell door. He could feel his pupils dilating, getting used to no light after an entire afternoon of the wicked, scorching suns. His head spun for a few moments as he stammered to find the weak mattress he had slept on since he arrived. But there was nothing. Crawling on three, he groped and cursed for it at every corner, only to find the same bitter cold concrete. For a moment, he thought he was going mad, but realized it was wholly possible they had it removed. The arm screamed at him, reminding him he had a more serious problem. He didn't know if they'd bring him to a doctor or if they'd bring a doctor to him. Maybe they wouldn't have him treated at all. Sitting himself down in a random corner, he noticed there was blood on his hand. The alien did more than snap a bone.

As his eyes got used the darkness, he could focus on the window below him. It was in an unusual place, only a few centimeters from the ground. A faint strip of moonlight could be seen and he was drawn to it. Every night, he was drawn to it. He saw the light, but never the moons. He figured there was more than one, for there was never a new moon since he had been there, and the days felt only slightly longer than Earth days. There was no recollection as how long the nights were. Sometimes, he'd sleep for what felt like days, and sometimes only minutes, waking from wretched nightmares.

Sliding on his stomach, careful of his arm, he crawled to the small window. It was only the length of his face. And there were no bars; he felt free, but couldn't escape. His bloodied hand cradled the edge of it and pulled his body forward. He sniffed the air. It smelled like seawater. Every night it smelled the same but he yearned to sniff this air, getting a taste of freedom from the stench of dirt, blood, and death inside the cell. He still couldn't see anything, just the moonlight hitting the window and a few branches from a sickly palm-like tree. From this, he knew he was up high, and not on a ground floor. They would blindfold him with a sick smelling rag over his head, and he would be dragged up dilapidated steps. He could never tell how many; he would become delusional or unconscious every time. Sometimes, the days did feel longer.

He'd be dragged back and forth through the hills, full of dust and hideous insects. He was either up there to be put to work in the mines or to be tortured for the aliens' amusement. Lying limp, half conscious on the hot sand with the suns burning his eyes, he could still smell the sea air, wherever the sea was. They'd beat their boots into his body that he'd be knocked out, only to wake up later, lying numbly in his cell. But he didn't know how much later it was when it happened. He figured days, and maybe he did see a doctor after all. Once, he found a bandage on his forehead, but it soon fell off when he worked in the mines.

Once in awhile, while working in the mines, they would give him and the others a few minutes break other than to just eat their slop. He would wander off below the plateau on the other side, drawn towards the smell of sea. One day, he wandered so far; he spotted palm branches similar to the ones out his window. He ran towards the sight, stumbling on the scorching sand. There was no longer dirt under his feet, but sand: beautiful, glistening white sand. His pace slowed as he reached the trunk of it next to a wall taller than him, made of stone. Slowly, he walked up to it, looking up, squinting his eyes. There were round balls like coconuts, and he smiled. He had seen trees exactly like this on his trip to Maui as a child and to many other tropical places back on Earth. The sound of gulls filled the distant air, real or imaginary, he didn't care. He felt compelled to hug the trunk, the closest thing to home.

Instead - eyeing the two suns above him and the angered, yelling monsters behind him - he kicked it. Again and again he plunged his foot into it, either to get the coconuts or just out of pure frustration, he didn't know.

"Take me home!" he screamed up at the swaying branches. The aliens grabbed him from behind. "Where are they? I can't take anymore! The food! The bloody cell! My friends… they must take me from here! I want to go -," They plunged a fist into his stomach and he keeled over, shutting up for a moment. Two of them dragged him on the ground back up the plateau, and into the mines. He opened his eyes again, rocks scraping his back, and looked at the tree getting further and further away. "The sea…" he whispered before the feeling of another boot digging into his side. The sea had slipped his mind after seeing the tree. Days after, he would look over at the same plateau, terrified to cross it again.

He soon realized the cell wasn't his prison, but that stone wall was, along with his own stupidity. You could've forgotten about the bloody tree, climbed over that wall… you could've been free, he told himself. It was getting colder out, and the moonlight shown brighter. His hand reached further out to where his elbow hung on the edge, brushing is against the wall. His blood smeared on the outside, and he believed it wasn't the first. There were claw marks everywhere on the edges. Stroking them gently, he thought of all the prisoners who were here before him. He didn't know them, probably never even met any of their kind, but he felt for them. They were long gone, buried in the dunes to the 'south'. During the day, outside the mines, he figured that the sea was east or northeast from them. He had no idea what the aliens who ran the place would consider it.

Lost in a nameless place, captured under a nameless alien race, a nameless enemy, a nameless planet, a speechless language, there was no way he would ever get back home, he could feel it. His friends were looking for him, he knew that.

"They'll never find me," he mumbled and pulled his arm inside. His ragged clothing stank and he could still taste the bitter taste of slop. His eyelids closed over his tired eyes. Awhile ago, he counted how many times he had seen the sun and how many times he had seen this moonlight, but he eventually lost count. Even through all the days he might've lied in an infirmary unconscious, he still kept count of the days he was actually up and walking plus the estimate he wasn't. In his head, there was no hope. In his heart, like any other, hope was always alive, a ceaseless entity like a scar that would never disappear. But now and then, that scar would heal and his mind would prevail with logic that no one would come.

Lying totally silent, he inhaled the sweet, salty air before drifting asleep. Somehow, he dreamt of palm trees swaying to the beat of the crashing waves against the stone wall. They would crash, and crash, and crash. The wall would break. The waves would drown everyone and everything in its path. Except him; he stands in his barrier-less cell, throws the rags into the blackness of the ocean, and climbs the highest palm, reaching for all the empty moons and stars in the sky.


End file.
